Shower Dancin' and Rooster Rockin'

By: Angela Gillaspie © 2006 All Rights Reserved

"There is a bit of insanity in dancing that does everybody a great deal of good." ~Edwin Denby

Back in the mid 1970s, there were more cows than cars in my small hometown of Cohutta, Georgia. It was a simple time and place that had a whole lot of dancing going on. Saturday evenings down at the Clayton chicken house, there was the Red Clay Jamboree where a large percentage of town folk went to have a big time dancing to country and bluegrass music. Hotdogs, cokes, and coffee were available while fiddlers fiddled and pickers picked.

Momma can dance, but Daddy, bless his heart, just can't get it right. He does this thing with his shoulder that makes him sort of look like he's trying to spin an airplane propeller. Maybe he learned the shoulder-jerk dance back in his navy days when he was stationed on the USS Tarawa aircraft carrier.

My sisters can really cut a rug; they were moving to the music before they could walk. We have old movies of my older sister Sherri twisting like crazy to her "gee-tar music" made from a rubber band and cardboard, and of my younger sister Traci flapping away to the chicken dance. Where was I? Sulking in the corner.

I didn't like to dance in front of anyone. I felt dorky but like my sisters, dancing was in my blood. I danced in the shower and when no one was home, I went outside and danced on the picnic table. One time, I had the house and yard to myself so I cranked up the radio and put on my dancin' shoes. My favorite song, the Carly Simon/James Taylor version of "Mockingbird," came on the radio and I ran outside, jumped up on the picnic table, and started singing and *getting down.

Our dog Gypsy liked to sing along with me, so I translated the song to doggy language and barked the lyrics.

Here I am, 12 years old, worrying about clogging ... or was it my Farrah hair?

My doggy language "Rocking-rird" rendition was rooster-like, but Gypsy loved it. When the song (and my crowing) was over, I noticed that Gypsy wasn't singing along with me, but barking at someone standing at the front door.

Looking closer I saw that it was our preacher and he was grinning like a billy goat eating briars. I faked a coughing fit and yelled for Gypsy in a rooster-style "Rocking-rird" singsong voice to make him think this was my unique way of calling my dog. He didn't buy it - he was giggling like a schoolgirl. I took off running into the house and hid behind Daddy's recliner.

I learned two lessons that day:

1. don't sing louder than your dog can bark, and
   
2. never tell your sisters that you crowed in front of the preacher or they will remind you about your picnic table solo for the rest of your life.

After that, I kept my rooster-ized *arias in the shower.

Momma wanted all of her girls to enjoy dancing, so she cooked up a surprise for us, hoping for some mother and daughter bonding time. She gathered us together and announced that the entire family was taking clogging classes. Sherri and Traci squealed with excitement - I ran and hid behind Daddy's recliner.

Clogging class was a no-win predicament for me. Not only did I have to wear a dress, I had to get on stage and clog in front of everybody and their cousins. Clogging isn't delicate tap-dancing, but more of a see-how-loud-you-can-stomp thing where your upper body doesn't move and your feet go a mile a minute stomping to the music.

My sisters thought they'd died and gone to heaven with the prospect of dressing up in those cute dresses and *crinolines, getting on stage, and performing for the masses. I was horrified; I wore dresses only when forced. Unlike my sisters, I was no petite flower and was way too rough for dresses. Every time Momma put me in a dress, I came home with it ripped to the hip and dragging a trail behind me.

Some things never change as you can tell at my sister Traci's wedding recently - Sherri (on far left) and Traci (bride) are dancing and there I am (to the far right) still afraid to dance in public.

Momma didn't make me take clogging classes. She probably thought it was wise to keep me from clogging because armed with tap shoes and crinolines there was no telling what damage I would do.

Thankfully, I dodged the clogging class bullet and eventually went on to recover from my dance phobia. I danced at my prom proving that wise Japanese proverb: "We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance."

These days I've settled down with my husband and four kids in a small Birmingham, Alabama suburb where there are more cars than cows and more rap music than rooster rock. Square dances are around - but hard to find.

My husband doesn't care for dancing unless he's had a big dose of that nighttime-sneezing-sniffling-so-you-can-dance medicine. My kids won't dance and have forbidden my husband and I from dancing in any form, at any time, at any place - especially around them and their friends or anyone that remotely knows them. My youngest, however, loves to dance and can't seem to walk without some kind of little jig, twist, and bounce in his step.

I don't dance as much as I did "BC" (Before Children), but I still dance in the shower. And yes, I serenade the kids with my rooster-ized rendition of "Rocking-rird." They're not as fond of my rooster rock as Gypsy was, but they *sho 'nuff like it better than going clogging.

-30-

*Glossary:

Aria: An aria is one of those fancy vocal solos sung at operas
Crinoline: A crinoline is a slip made of stiff fabric worn under a dress making it fuller
Getting down: to 'get down' is to really be focused on what you're doing
Sho 'nuff: means "Sure enough"

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